Quite A Day
by Katiebugg1321
Summary: This is the first fic in a story arc that deals with my version of the events following Comrades in Arms Part 1&2. After a hard day in the OR and a surprise encounter with an old friend, Margaret requires heavy drinking. HM angst with just a dash of fluff
1. A Rotten Day

Quite A Day

By: OneSongKatie

Disclaimer: I don't own Hawk or Margaret, although I do feel very close to them at this point in my life. It's a beautiful relationship, frankly.

AN: This is the first story in an arc I've written concerning my own version of the events following Comrades In Arms Part 1 and 2. Lots of angsty HM.

Chapter 1

Margaret sat motionless at her desk, staring blankly into space and wondering what precisely had become of her plans, her life—her entire existence in the war and the world. And, more importantly, when it had all gone completely out the window.

She'd had a rotten day.

Even more so than usual.

Right now Margaret wanted to curl up in her favorite pink bathrobe, maybe read a little. And try like hell to somehow forget today.

She wrapped herself in the bathrobe, feeling its familiar fuzzy material momentarily calm her churning thoughts. Sitting at the desk, running her fingers over rivets in the wood, Margaret tried not to think about…everything.

Unfortunately however, it wasn't working.

Margaret began to wonder grimly if perhaps this moment was, in fact, ignition of the biological time bomb that had been ticking dangerously close to her heart for some time now. But, try as she might, she could not fool herself into believing that getting older was the only issue weighing upon her weary brain.

Margaret Houlihan did not have many friends.

She frowned, thinking that sounded vaguely pathetic. But, she honestly hadn't meant to elicit sympathy. No, Margaret asserted, it was just an impassionate fact of her life.

Margaret smiled a little. Not much better, she thought grimly.

Shrugging inwardly, Margaret reasoned that it had, in her life, generally seemed easier maintaining a certain amount of distance from people rather than breaking character long enough to actually be familiar with them.

Margaret paused at this, questioning her choice in words.

Break character?

In retrospect, she supposed she had always considered herself to be two, the Major and the woman, though, of course, never _both_ simultaneously.

She wasn't entirely sure why this was. Margaret thought that maybe she had always regarded her real self as weak. Weak and emotional.

And the worst of it was, Margaret thought, that that wasn't entirely inaccurate anymore.

Margaret suddenly realized how utterly depleted she was. Although, now that she really considered it, she could certainly understand why. It was absolutely exhausting exuding this gruff, _sturdy_, unflappable, superhuman—everything—exterior all the time.

Margaret grudgingly guessed it made sense. If she _made_ herself unapproachable, well, then, she wouldn't have many friends, would she? Oh, Margaret knew it was difficult—damn near impossible, she corrected—for others to really know her. But then, what did it matter in the long run?

She smiled. Anyhow, there were always a few who managed to break through the toughness and the staunch militarism to, well, whatever was truly at the heart of Margaret Hoolihan.

She honestly didn't have strength enough at the moment to figure out exactly what the hell that really was.

Margaret's fatigued mind turned to her most recent…well, she wasn't sure what to call him, actually.

Pierce.

She smiled in spite of herself thinking of the one person at this hellish place to remind her of humanity—her own, and possibly the world's at large.

He would make her tell the truth—to him, and more importantly, to herself—he had an exasperating knack for knowing when she needed that.

Margaret never failed to see the irony in his ability to both infuriate her beyond belief while simultaneously bringing out the human being in her. Tonight was no different.

She suddenly wished urgently that he were here right now.

And then again she didn't.

Margaret sighed. Everything was absolutely complicated with him.

Sometimes—not very often, but occasionally—she wondered what would happen when the war ended. If it ever ended.

For a moment she considered it seriously. What would they do? She'd always assumed, realistically, they would go their separate ways and happily forget everything about the war.

But now?

Did she want to _stay_ with him? She asked herself honestly for the first time. For that matter, did _he_ want to stay with her? And, if_he_ did, and _she_ did, would their relationship—and she used the word loosely here—change outside of the 4077th? She knew, rationally, that the war was going to end—it would have to end sometime. But she just couldn't see it. Or rather, she couldn't see beyond it. She sighed, feeling he pain throb a little more severely behind her eyes. Too confusing to think about right now.

Margaret dared to ask herself the most crucial question yet.

Was it possible for her to continue her life without him?

Also too complicated to think about.

At the same time, though, Margaret mused, there were times when, with him, everything seemed so perfectly simple…it scared her.

Memories of the past few weeks flooded through her mind…that night in the abandoned hut…

She'd thought she was going to die that night. Honestly, sincerely thought her life was ending.

The shells fell for what seemed like an eternity. Though, it had actually only been a few minutes, Margaret calculated now.

That night, however, the world existed only in the giant, deafening blasts exploding—directly above their heads as far as Margaret could tell.

Time seemed to crawl. The walls of the hut were collapsing in around them, raining debris everywhere. Margaret recalled vividly the choking smell of burning thatch, and the dust stinging her eyes.

She'd pretended then that the dust caused the tears running down her cheeks.

But, he'd been so near.

In her terror, Margaret forgot all about hating his guts. She forgot the wisecracks, the biting humor, the pranks. She forgot how much she despised his lack of regard for the military and his utter contempt for the war.

Hell, she even forgot to be terrified for a minute there.

When she'd first felt his face close to hers, all she could think was, well, this was it.

And, if this_was_ the end, why the hell not?

Margaret almost laughed. She had forgotten to _hate_ him for the slightest of instants, and everything had gone to hell.

The next explosion had sealed it. The earsplitting roar of the shell brought all the frenzied thoughts racing through her mind to a blinding halt, as the adrenaline pumping violently in her veins took control.

She didn't think she'd ever kissed anyone that…hard.

Like her life depended on it.

As long as she concentrated on how his mouth felt—how _he_ felt—she could pretend the world wasn't ending.

Then she stopped caring altogether.

After that, Margaret didn't remember thinking anything other than how much she desperately didn't want to stop—how much she couldn't stop. She wanted only to live long enough to kiss _him_ for at least the next few minutes. Then the next few after that.

But they hadn't died that night.

She almost wished that were the case, remembering the coldness of the next morning. Margaret shuddered at the memory.

Everything was so strange—he was too strange, too frustrating, too much. Something inside of her panicked. She'd had to resort to the classic Margaret Houlihan stand-by: deny deny deny.

An oldie, but a goody, Margaret thought dryly.

Margaret tried to recall what in particular was the worst part of that horrendous morning. Was it that she'd slept with _another_ officer with whom she worked? She grimaced inwardly, remembering the fiasco that was Frank Burns.

Margaret smiled thinly. Add another notch to the Hot Lips tally of crummy relationships.

Actually, though, this was an interesting point. What was the pattern here? Was she still, in some bizarre fashion, trying to win her father's approval? Although Margaret supposed she would always strive—probably unsuccessfully—to finally make her father proud of her, she didn't think in this instance it was really the issue.

Pierce was definitely _not_ her father.

Margaret almost laughed out loud at that. He wasn't even really an officer, when you got right down to it.

She remembered a time when his ambivalence for all things military really irked her. Margaret realized affably it was because she valued it so heavily, and he, somehow threatened her faith in the institution. Maybe she just didn't like being proven wrong.

She didn't care much now, though.

Which seemed to be more and more the case.

When Margaret thought about what bothered her most about the horrible morning with Hawkeye—honestly—in her heart she knew the truth.

It wasn't him.

It was _her_.

But then, wasn't it always?

It was the uncharacteristic reaction she so energetically displayed. Margaret rested her head on her hands on the table, sadly.

How undeniably _familiar_ the entire scene was, Margaret thought bitterly. She finally finds something unprecedented, untainted, and of course, immediately panics. Then morphs into this…well, whatever the hell it was she changed into that morning.

Margaret sighed into her arms. The person moving around in her clothes that morning was not at all who she wanted to be. She knew it wasn't. But, then she was probably the only one.

And that was the problem. Margaret experienced a new wave of exhaustion with the realization.

She felt so drained.

Margaret remembered that morning again, feeling a little sick to her stomach. She'd felt then as if she were watching the entire scene unfurl from somewhere else. Maybe she'd only wished it.

She certainly didn't know _that_ person. She longed now to go back, cut off the silly woman with the insecurity and all the talking, and finally cue Margaret Houlihan. Even now, it was still a tad embarrassing to think about, actually.

Margaret grimaced. She'd behaved terribly that morning

She could it admit now.

Sitting here in her pink bathrobe in the dark of the tent, Margaret could admit it.

Now if she could only straighten things out in daylight.

When everything with Hawkeye went to hell, she could only blame herself. After all, Margaret thought bitterly, she was Margaret Houlihan, awkward and unfortunate relationship extraordinaire. Notch that tally too, she quipped bitterly.

She'd at least made a full job of it.

The way she'd performed that morning, then, for her next act, a downward spiral into complete and utter catastrophe at the 8063rd demonstration. And for her final number, she added grimly, a complete emotional breakdown, culminating with her display when they'd returned home to the 4077th.

Thumping good show. Golf claps all around.

Margaret recalled unhappily how _severely_ she'd reproached herself for letting her guard down.

See? See why you should never allow vulnerability?? This just goes to show you. Throwing trust around like that? It serves you right, she'd thought, angrily.

So, later, when Hawkeye offered friendship, she'd accepted hesitantly, choosing to appear indifferent at first. Really, she was terrified. He terrified her.

He'd managed to break down the defenses she worked so hard to maintain time and again. He always managed to see right through her—he'd proven to be dangerous in that way before. But, in the end she had acquiesced. And why? She knew without asking herself it was for a reason she still could not quite name. _Certainly_ against her better judgment, she added.

That was that, she'd assumed wearily at the time.

But it hadn't really worked—the friendship thing.

Margaret wasn't sure if she actually ever believed it would.

The next day in OR, every word he'd uttered inexplicably made her angrier and progressively angrier. And, once again, Margaret had fired back—with a vengeance. Margaret realized now she reacted so fiercely because she was still feeling—rather deeply—how vulnerable he made her. _She was afraid of him_.

She didn't like it.

She could say with some measure of reason now, she'd overcompensated that day.

A lot.

Okay, she'd utterly, totally, horrifyingly overcompensated. There. She could admit it. Well, she could hardly blame _herself, _Margaret retorted defensively. She remembered feeling this intense irritation at every wisecrack, every pun—the singing!

Oh God the singing.

Margaret rolled her eyes in the dim light of the tent. If she wasn't _beyond_ exhausted right now…she could just about feel her blood begin to boil all over again.

It was as if every derisive comment, every joke at her expense finally mixed, fusing to create a lethal bomb with a very short fuse.

And then it exploded.

She distantly recalled being alarmed at her rampant display of emotion, but at the time, she couldn't shut herself up!

Margaret knew without doubt no one had ever infuriated her more than Hawkeye Pierce. It still amazed her, how easily he caused her discomfort. She wondered why, out of all the human beings on the planet _he_ had to be the one to get to her. And furthermore, why the hell she couldn't get rid of him.

Even if she wanted to.

That day, she remembered her anger had confused Hawkeye. At first, anyway. Interestingly enough, though, his puzzlement had only provoked her further.

God he made her livid.

He actually seemed a little hurt, too, she realized in retrospect. Margaret hadn't noticed at the time, but now she felt a pang of regret.

She _wanted_ to hurt him that day. It felt good, easy. Anger was easy.

As the day progressed, the situation only continued to escalate. After four or five hours of sheer hostility, Margaret guessed she finally overdid it.

Boy, was that an understatement, she thought wryly.

She'd never seen him that genuinely angry before, _especially_ in the operating room. She could only imagine what the other staff thought. They probably talked a great deal after about how Hot Lips went crazy in the operating room.

A thing like that would have really aggravated her at the beginning of the war. That gave her pause. She realized dully she didn't cared _that _day, and didn't much now, either.

Something occurred to her.

Something more than a little earth shattering.

She was the only person who could totally and completely tee off Hawkeye.

Margaret grinned. She didn't think Frank Burns, in all his meddling, had even come close. In the entire time she'd been assigned to the 4077th, not snipers, black-marketers, bigots, racists, slavers, drug-peddlers, pompous generals, reporters, politicians, or warmongers, had ever upset Pierce as much her that day.

Although it was only fair, really.

She shivered, thinking of what happened after.

It had been an unbelievably long day—and she felt tired in her bones. When she—literally—ran into him on the way back from Post-Op, she'd barely registered his presence.

It was bitter cold, but his voice cut through the chill night air.

He could always do that.

He'd demanded to know, what was the matter with her today? Didn't they settle all this?

But she'd kept walking.

She was still feeling truly out of sorts that night. The whole experience had really thrown her—more than she liked—and she'd wanted nothing more than to never see him again. He possessed an uncanny knack for getting the truth out of her on occasions like these, and Margaret was having none of it.

Not tonight, she'd thought resolutely.

He'd called after her, Margaret remembered stonily, but she hadn't looked back.

When she finally made it to her tent, she'd fervently—and foolishly—breathed a sigh of relief. It hadn't occurred to her that he might follow her. Hell, at that point she didn't think he was capable of something like that.

Right.

After entering the tent, she'd stopped in the middle of the floor trying to collect herself and cursing her weakness. Cursing the pathetic person inside whose tears threatened to fall yet again—when she'd so recently vowed not to let things like this happen anymore!

She was so angry at everything. Herself, him, her life, this war—it had all threatened to come howling out of her that night.

Margaret remembered how she'd angrily turned to take off her coat. Her plan was to drink heavily, then if all went well, pass out for a while. If she were exceedingly lucky, Margaret had thought earnestly, she'd pass out for _more_ than a while.

But instead, she'd turned only to find _him_ standing there in front of the door.

Margaret smiled faintly, recalling her reaction. Her heart had stopped for a moment. Then it began beating impossibly fast.

But Margaret remembered most vividly his eyes.

He'd watched her then with a strange expression on his face. It had taken Margaret a beat to identify what in particular struck her so profoundly about his features that night.

Then she'd realized it was his eyes.

His usually ardent eyes were clouded in the dim light of her tent. Margaret could recall their peculiar color with perfect clarity, because even in her fury she had marveled at them.

For the first time since she'd known Hawkeye Pierce, his eyes were utterly unreadable.

She'd thought he was going to say something. Yell at her. Anything.

Instead he'd simply cleared the distance between them with one swift movement of his long legs.

She'd tried to speak then, but couldn't. What could she say?

His arms pulled her to him.

His lips were on hers.

Margaret slowly smiled, remembering the warmth of his touch, the feel of his mouth, his strong hands on her body.

Still smiling, Margaret had to admit, his hands were magnificent.

It had been the night in the hut all over again—that same blind, unthinking passion. And the nights following…

Well, she thought wryly, the war had been almost bearable lately.

It was suddenly staggering to Margaret how quickly this month had passed.

In her entire life, had she ever had this much…fun?

God, she'd loved every minute of it—she had to acknowledge, the fact overwhelmed her. Just thinking about him made her desperate to touch his face, feel his long arms encircle her, brush aside his hair and look into the blue eyes that made her weak.

Those eyes that saw through everything she'd ever tried to hide behind.

It never failed to astonish her how every tangled aspect of her life seemed drastically simpler in his eyes.

She wanted to see him.

Right now, if possible. She wanted so badly to stop thinking about today. Her brain howled to take comfort in him, drown her pain in him—_forget_ in him.

She took a deep breath. It didn't look like she would get the chance.

Exhausted, Margaret closed her eyes, wishing her brain would shut up. But, the rational voice that occasionally spoke up inside her knew innately that she had to think this through, had to make sense of it.

After all, she was Major Hoolihan, an "overall sturdy woman," she thought, glowering at the memory of Donald's words. That letter still infuriated her. Even with everything happening with Pierce—whatever that was—thinking about its contents always managed to rankle her.

Her husband.

Margaret wondered why it continued to bother her so much. She'd told herself time and again, stop agonizing over Donald. What's done is done.

She'd idealized the colonel—fictionalized him, essentially—and as a result, well, she wasn't sure quite what to do about the entire mess.

But she didn't want to think about Donald. It didn't matter. Honestly? She asked her heart. Her heart didn't reply.

She forced herself to think. What was all this really about, logically?

Ha.

Logically? Margaret doubted she was capable of logic right now.

After a 14-hour shift in the OR at the 4077th? You might as well ask the Mess Tent to serve a seven-course meal, starting with cold cucumber soup, and ending with sticky date pudding and sherbet—dinner rolls included.

Margaret laughed softly. Somewhere along the way during this war, logic had flown swiftly out the window. Flown away, been shot down by anti-aircraft artillery, and finally atomized by a wayward land mine. Then trampled on.

Still, she rationalized, it was time to come to terms—maybe she could actually get some sleep tonight. Okay, sleep might be pushing it. But, she at least had to attempt inner rapprochement.

All right.

If she was going to be honest with herself—well, try anyway—then she, in point of fact, knew what had triggered this damned contemplativeness.

Someone had come into the OR today. Someone she knew _before_ the war—_possibly loved_ before the war—her heart corrected.

Griffin.

Her face softened at the thought of her old friend. When she'd first joined the army—all those years ago, she added a little forlornly—she'd met him in a training squadron. It was the first day of basic training, and she'd been the only girl!

God, she was so scared that first day.

He'd stood behind her in ranks, and immediately introduced himself when their commanding officer dismissed them. He'd grinned at her with this crooked smile. It was very charming. She'd shyly smiled back. And that was that!

Things were so much simpler then, Margaret thought sadly.

They became fast friends in the days and weeks following. She exclaimed inwardly, hell, he was the reason I made it through basic! Margaret chuckled at the memory of herself those many years ago. _Before _she was Hot Lips.

She was young, naïve, a hell of a lot blonder, _patriotic_, she admitted with a grimace. How things do change, Margaret marveled.

Griff was the first person in her life to tell her she was beautiful. He had sandy colored hair and a dazzling smile she'd found positively irresistible, she recalled wistfully. He had a way of looking into your eyes when he spoke…that it moved her to express her feelings only in romantic clichés. Margaret grimaced at herself.

Griff was quite a guy. She'd thought then they would always be together. They would get married and that was it. She believed she was in love with him.

But, that was a long time ago, now, Margaret thought bitterly.

A war, a husband, and one and a half hair colors ago, when she got right down to it.

For a brief moment she imagined what her life would be like if Korea hadn't happened. She envisioned herself marrying Griffin in a big, white chapel while sunshine glimmered through stained-glass windows. They would have two sandy-haired children, and live in a brick house with white picket fences, a golden retriever, a Ford in the driveway, Bingo on Thursdays, cookies baking in the oven, vacations in the country—in other words a long, contented life. Her mother would be delighted. Margaret just felt tired.

How many lives would she be living without the interference of North Korea?

Margaret wasn't sure, but in her heart of hearts she knew the truth.

She didn't really want white picket fences. And now, she realized sadly, she could never have or want those things again, anyway. Not after everything she'd seen and done with the 4077th. Of that she was unreservedly certain.

Margaret wasn't sure how she felt about that. And, she sure as hell didn't know what to say to Griff.

_Hi, how you've been? Yeah, no, I've been great. Oh, of course I remember those days in basic. We sure were crazy back then. Married? Check. Am I still madly in love with you? Well, here's the thing of it. When I left you to come to Korea I thought I'd _die_ without you. But who could've predicted I would forget _allabout you_?! I know! It's absolutely outrageous! And now, I've become a completely different person! I know it sounds ridiculous, but frankly, with everything I've seen out here…well, it's been some time—let me be the first to tell you. So how've you been? _

Margaret couldn't do it. There was too much.

Griff came in earlier that day with minor shrapnel wounds. His injuries weren't terribly serious, but enough to keep him in a hospital bed for a few days. She'd recognized him immediately, even if his face was thinner and his eyes had less…something. She couldn't quite put her finger on what.

It had disturbed her.

When the orderlies carried him in Margaret had instantly seen that smile of his, though. She'd thanked heaven—or whoever was listening—that not even time or war could dull some things.

But he'd been woozy from the painkillers, and not conscious long enough even to focus his eyes on her.

She admitted to herself now that the emotion she'd felt at that moment was relief.

She'd been_relieved_ not to speak to him.

In the hours following Griff's operation, Margaret kept a close watch, making sure not to stray far from his bed in Post-Op. When he finally awoke hours later, his confused eyes had settled on her form. She remembered she'd been anxiously writing on his chart next to the bed. "Margaret?" He'd croaked blearily. "Margaret Houlihan, is that you? God it's been--"

He'd startled her more than she liked.

There was something terrifying about suddenly having to talk to him and look at him. She'd had this thick, panicky feeling in her throat. So, she almost franticly shushed him, saying with false cheer they'd chat later; he needed to rest now—get his strength back.

When his eyes finally closed again she'd sighed with a mixture of exhaustion, relief, frustration, and about eight other emotions hovering right above her eyes. The pressure threatened to burst into tears that would not stop.

She'd sat very still for a moment. Margaret noticed new lines on Griff's face, then, wondering suddenly if she, too, showed signs of aging.

She had to brush a single, traitorous tear from her cheek at that point. She'd quickly glanced up, making certain no one saw such an uncharacteristic display of emotion.

But, instead she'd met BJ's questioning eyes across the room. _Damn_. She'd thought, a little hysterically, wondering how long he'd bee there.

She liked the captain well enough. He seemed a genuinely good-hearted and compassionate friend, anyway. And she had to respect that. But Margaret had inwardly exclaimed _this is not the time_.

Hell of an understatement, she thought now.

BJ looked then as if he planned to make his way over. Margaret panicked, and, wishing _like hell_ to avoid discussing anything with the tall doctor, walked briskly to the door with her head down.

Margaret grimaced, recalling what happened next.

As if on cue, Pierce had strolled into the Post-Op ward. But then, it was appropriate. Of course he would get there as she was running away. You should've seen that coming, Margaret chided herself.

She remembered painfully how she'd retreated. Just ran away! She really was weak. Margaret thought he might've started to say something as she'd passed, but she hadn't hung around to reply.

He'd looked good that afternoon.

Though she'd only glimpsed him, Margaret could still recall how rested he seemed. She momentarily dared to wonder, was it because of her?

Stranger things have happened, she thought, a little stunned. Well? When she considered it, she realized she didn't think she could remember a time when he'd come to work without signs of exhaustion or hangover. Or both.

Maybe it was.

Hell, Margaret couldn't remember a time when _she'd_ come to the OR and treated the staff pleasantly before the past month. So there.

But it couldn't last, Margaret reminded herself.

Things had been going—did she dare say it? Things had been going well with them these last few weeks. Almost…healthy, even. Well, at least she thought so. But maybe she was only kidding herself.

What exactly were they doing anyway?

Margaret sighed. She shouldn't lie to herself, kid herself that they could really make it. In the end, he'd run or she'd run and they'd both end up burned.

They were too different, and in the worst ways, too much the same, Margaret admitted to herself. It could never work in the real world, away from dire circumstances. She was just fooling herself thinking otherwise.

Still, some part of her wondered why it was then, that her body responded so intensely to his?

When she'd brushed past Hawkeye earlier today, Margaret had genuinely wanted to stop and talk to him about all this. She really had.

But she was already out the door.

And now, here she was. Too tired to sleep. She realized solemnly there was only one choice to be made at this moment.

The scotch or the scotch?


	2. The Scotch It Is

Quite A Day

By: OneSongKatie

Chapter 2 – The Scotch It Is

Margaret was thoroughly drunk.

At some point during her marathon drinking session she observed that drinking by oneself was characteristic of an alcoholic. Frank had once told her that, she thought ironically. Good ol' Frank. What a human being.

God that was a long time ago, she thought, amazed. But was it?

She considered herself to be a wholly different person now, but wasn't entirely sure. Maybe she ought to really mull it over.

More scotch then, Margaret groggily reasoned.

I'll figure it out after another glass, she added. Margaret let out a short laugh. Hell, one more drink and I'll figure everything out. She snorted, thinking only half-jokingly she'd merely stay drunk till they declared peace and she could go home to…to what? That sobered her a bit.

To Donald?

To her family?

Margaret thought seriously about this. She honestly couldn't envision herself anymore playing hostess to Donald's friends, being the obedient wife. White picket fences again. She didn't want that. But then, what did she want_instead_?

How could she go on, knowing what she knew and having felt what she'd felt? How could she ever live a semblance of a normal life?

How could she sleep eight hours a night in a soft bed knowing what it's like to have imbibed so much coffee you could conceivably start your own bean plantation and still somehow feel tired above your eyes and deep in your bones because you've been awake for days and you don't remember the way it feels to be comfortable? Or clean?

How could she go back to assisting routine appendectomies after watching surgeons amputating decimated limbs and sewing maimed bodies back together in every way imaginable?

She realized sadly she didn't even have any friends at home to go back to.

Although, she didn't actually have any friends here either.

She had nothing and no one and she couldn't figure out why the goddamn scotch wasn't making her feel any better.

She closed her eyes. This had to stop.

Where were these thoughts coming from? Why couldn't she just be drunk and happy like everyone else?

She didn't even have it in her to cry. She had lost even that ability. The tear she'd shed for Griffin had been the only one of its kind. How many months had it been? The world collapsed around her and she couldn't cry.

Another glass didn't help. Nor did the glass after that. And by this time, everything was spinning. Margaret decided it was actually rather interesting to watch. Like some bizarre khaki kaleidoscope.

Only with more alcohol, she added thoughtfully.

The tent began to spin faster around her, and Margaret gripped the sides of the table in an attempt to steady herself. When darkness began to consume the fringes of her vision she didn't try to fight it. Finally a reprieve, she thought with relief.

As Margaret's head hit the table, she thought she heard it begin to rain.

_'Margaret?' A voice called, sounding far away. Margaret began to answer, but then thought better of it. She decided to ignore the voice. _

_Why should she bother? _

_For the first time today she felt oddly peaceful. For some reason it was overwhelmingly comfortable in this place. In fact, she couldn't remember why she was so unhappy. _

_She settled contentedly into the dark once more._

_It was so warm here._

_'Margaret,' the voice called again softly._

'_Margaret you have to talk to me. Don't you know the rules? There's no running away in this place.' The voice was louder now, almost scolding, more commanding. She feared for a tense moment it was her father's voice. She felt like a little girl again, hiding in the closet. He wouldn't find her here._

_'Margaret.' The voice was so familiar, though she knew now it was _not_ her father. He wouldn't try this hard to find me. He never had._

_Margaret opened her eyes, searching through the haze for the voice, and saw a tall figure walking toward her. _

_She realized idly who it was._

"Margaret?"

She wanted to answer, but couldn't move. Her head was _so_ heavy, and for some reason, she felt desperately she didn't want to see the rain pounding loudly on the tent's roof.

"Margaret? I _know_ you're in there." The voice continued, though this time it was accompanied by knocking. "C'mon Margaret it's raining like crazy out here!"

Margaret was awake now. And slightly less drunk, she gauged without emotion. This conjecture was based solely on the fact that she could walk. Although Margaret soon discovered that that, also was arguable.

Margaret stumbled across the tent, somehow managed to undo the lock, and, clumsily throwing open the door, looked directly into the blue eyes of Hawkeye Pierce. Standing in the rain.

What fantastic timing he has, she thought blearily. Margaret felt a dulled pang of remorse, noticing how soaked he looked.

It was a pity, she reasoned drunkenly. There were _two_ Pierces staring at her curiously in the doorway, and it was altogether too difficult to concentrate on just one long enough to apologize.

Hawkeye stepped inside silently. His eyes, after glancing at the nearly empty bottle on the table, concernedly searched her face. "Margaret, what's going on? What took you so long to open the door?" Margaret didn't say anything. She didn't know if she could form words right now.

She wobbled a little on her feet.

Instantly Hawkeye reached out to steady her, holding her gently by the shoulders. He smiled almost imperceptibly, good-naturedly admonishing, "Margaret. Have you forgotten what I've told you about drinking alone?"

Margaret swayed in his grasp, looking at him in confusion. He smiled broadly now, pulling her more fully into his arms.

She realized distantly he was getting her wet.

She felt the tips of his fingers press lightly on her neck as he said into her hair, "At least have the courtesy to leave some for me, when I get here." Margaret could hardly stand, but smiled gratefully nonetheless.

For a minute there, she'd drunkenly worried he was going to ask about today.

Margaret breathed a bleary sigh of relief into his shoulder. This was exactly what she wanted—what she needed—right now. She liked the way his wet body felt against hers.

She realized hazily he had started to speak.

"Margaret." He breathed her name, pulling back a little to look in her face. She closed her eyes, remembering her dream and wondering suddenly if she were actually awake.

"Margaret." He said again, this time more resolutely. She managed to open her eyes and look at him.

"Did something happen today?" He asked gently.

She didn't answer.

Instead, Margaret carefully rose onto her toes until she was…she searched her memory for the ballet term…_en pointe_, yes, that was it. She was _en pointe_, Margaret thought giddily, briefly flashing back to when she was a little girl. When she was a dancer as a child, she often imagined herself growing up to be a beautiful ballerina. Dancing in someone's arms, she thought, smiling unfocusedly.

She was now inches away from Hawkeye's puzzled eyes. He looked down at her feet oddly. "I didn't know you could do that," he said softly.

Still standing on her toes, Margaret shakily raised a hand to brush the wet hair out of his eyes. He stared questioningly at her.

Hawkeye swallowed, then grinned.

That grin of his.

She became vaguely aware that he was speaking again.

"Margaret, I feel I should inform you that if you're trying to take advantage of me while I'm drunk, you've reversed a critical step," he was saying, trying slowly to maneuver her into the chair by her desk. But she began to sway again, and wrapped her arms around his neck.

Closing her eyes once more, Margaret buried her face in Hawkeye's collarbone. She willed the room to stop moving.

She could feel his smile against her hair. "Or, I guess I just arrived too late, and you decided to try the whole scenario out on yourself."

She concentrated on the vibrations his throat made when he spoke.

He continued, "You'll have to let me know how it works out for you. Maybe I'll give it a go, myself. As you know, I'm really appallingly easy when I'm drunk."

Margaret knew he wanted her to respond. Instead, she concentrated on standing.

Pierce added dryly, "Now might also be a good time to tell you how excellent your impression of a limp, mute person is going. Very real."

He paused once more, waiting to see if she'd speak. Margaret started to fall backward once more until Hawkeye righted her. She held on to his neck again, this time a little more tightly.

He was silent a moment, before continuing wryly, "Huh. Well, I'd really like to thank you again for a terrific show. You've been one hell of an audience here, this evening. Goodnight everybody—I'll be here all week! Have a safe trip home!"

On any other day Margaret would've rolled her eyes and walked away. Well, that, or resorted to violence.

Tonight, however, she found his prattle oddly comforting.

Now she knew she was _really_ drunk.

It occurred to her she should say something. He wanted her to say something.

Margaret breathed deeply. He smelled like rain and after-shave, and…something else she couldn't quite name.

She loved his smell.

Margaret lightly pressed her tongue to an errant drop of moisture on Hawkeye's neck. She felt his body shiver involuntarily.

"Margaret," he said hoarsely, adjusting her position in his arms to look in her eyes again. "You didn't answer my question before." His face was serious, though his eyes betrayed the faint trace of a smile.

Margaret gingerly slipped her arms around his chest underneath his jacket, trying with difficulty not to rock as she adjusted her center of gravity. She tucked her head under his chin.

Margaret discovered, with dulled astonishment, that she could feel the tension coursing through his cool body. It flowed like electric current in the hardness of his back muscles beneath the damp cloth of his tee shirt, the long lines of his arms, the tips of his fingers on her neck.

As drunk as Margaret was, she thought she felt his heart beating through his chest.

Then she kissed him.

His lips felt so cool against her hot mouth.

He started to pull back. Margaret feared for a moment he was going try to talk to her again.

Almost instantaneously, though, she sensed his resolve break.

Like pulling the pin from a grenade.

Hawkeye kissed her then, with an urgency Margaret recognized immediately. Even through a drunken haze she could identify the electricity that had propelled them through that first night in the hut and nearly every night following.

It had, for better or worse, come to define their strange relationship. They were so different—too different. But _this_ they had in common.

And it was the only thing that would get her through tonight.

In a brief moment of lucidity, it occurred to Margaret he probably needed it as much as she did.

It was a release. The pin on the grenade.

As if to prove this point, Hawkeye crushed her body to him, lifting Margaret off of her feet. They were kissing again, as they were surely meant to. She wanted him so much. She needed him.

Who began the next kiss? Margaret wasn't sure anymore. When their lips touched it didn't matter. Arms reached, caressed, hands gripped shoulders. The kiss grew. Margaret didn't know if it was another kiss or the same one. She stopped caring.

The room started spinning again. Margaret held on tighter, wrapping her legs around Hawkeye's waist to buoy herself.

She was only dimly aware of crashing backward onto her desk. Something smashed loudly on the floor. His mouth was on her neck and she could barely breathe. Her hands were tangled in his hair.

He pulled back to shrug off his wet jacket and tee shirt. She started to fumble with the button on his pants, but couldn't see straight enough to make her trembling fingers succeed. He finally broke and did it himself. When she felt the bare skin of his chest on her own she wondered at what point she'd removed her bathrobe, and couldn't remember.

It didn't matter.

Because his hands were suddenly on her hips pulling her body to his. Then there wasn't any more space between them and Margaret almost blacked out at the sensation. When he kissed her long and deep she didn't think it was possible to be closer to anyone in that moment. And it was perfect, searing and potent, blinding light behind her eyes.

This was how they were meant to be. No words or games.

She dug her nails into his back drawing him closer. The feeling of his thumbs pressing heavily on either side of her bellybutton as their bodies moved was making her delirious.

Everything was spinning violently, and she couldn't think, couldn't see. Her life was spiraling out of control and she could do nothing to stop it.

She didn't want to stop it.

She was remotely aware of him saying her name over and over into her neck. The world exploded in white-hot sparks with every breath she drew. The tent's walls moved around her. She felt weightless and floating, and wished desperately for this moment to go on forever.

She couldn't express why, but she suddenly felt overwhelmingly that if she could stay like this until the war ended, she might be able to make it.

Then there was quiet.

Except for the rain.

Neither of them moved.

Margaret's whole body quivered. It was an odd sensation, slicing through her alcohol-induced fog like a shot. She relished it.

The rain pelted the walls of the tent, and Margaret thought for a moment her heart was beating in time to the drops.

Margaret opened her eyes and started.

Everything was upside down? She wondered if she should be more surprised about something like that. Margaret realized numbly if she had opened her eyes and the world had turned inside out, she probably wouldn't have blinked twice. Not now. Not this night.

She finally comprehended that her head was hanging backwards over the other side of the desk. _She_ was upside-down, not the world.

Margaret closed her eyes again.

Then she felt him lift her.

She tentatively opened one eye as he carried her the few short feet to her cot. She leaned her head on his chest while he cradled her legs. He put her down gently, and then settled over her.

This was strange.

Margaret was hardly capable of rational thought in this moment, but she was still dimly aware of how strange this was.

After he raised his upper body to pull the blanket over them, he rested his weight on his elbows, gazing at her through eyes still dilated. They looked black in the dim light of the tent.

Her breath caught.

This detail, along with his wild hair, gave him a strangely rugged, almost feral appearance. She stared at him curiously, studying the lines of his face in the darkness.

She'd never seen him look like that.

Margaret slowly kissed his mouth. _Thank you Pierce,_ she thought silently. When she pulled back to gaze at him, he cocked his head quizzically, smiling crookedly at her.

But Margaret knew there were no words. The tent smelled of their sweat, and rain continued to fall outside. For the first time that day, Margaret felt fully warmed. He leaned down to kiss her temple. She smiled genuinely, closing her eyes. The last thing Margaret was aware of before falling asleep was Hawkeye smoothing her hair.


	3. Cautiously Optimistic

Quite A Day

By: OneSongKatie

Note: Right, well, here is the third and possibly final installment of this fic. However, if there is an overwhelming response to this bit. well then I'm not sure I could resist trying to get in dear Margaret's head again. I do enjoy her gleefully fractured POV _quite a lot_, so I may just continue it anyway.

Chapter 3 – Cautiously Optimistic

Margaret opened her eyes.

She realized with mixed emotions the scotch had almost entirely worn off.

Margaret looked around, mildly disorientated, trying to recall what had transpired this night. Hawkeye muttered something unintelligible next to her ear.

She took a moment to appreciate the feeling of his body draped over her—the way his chest moved with each breath, his eyelids fluttering on her neck.

Margaret loved that feeling. No matter how much she loathed him at times, the security she felt in his arms never failed to soothe. Here, belly to belly, where there weren't any words to get in the way, she could breathe a little more deeply.

She wondered idly what time it was.

Margaret suddenly remembered Pierce arranging them both on her cot. He'd been uncharacteristically affectionate this night. She recollected the events of the last few hours only in vague images, but knew deeply that there was something…new about his actions. Something just a little more….she stopped herself.

It didn't mean anything because it couldn't. She wouldn't allow herself to think those thoughts, not again.

She was still smarting from the last time she'd mistakenly overreacted to an expression of affection from him. The painful memory of that night remained, lodged like a sliver in her heart.

She had certainly learned her lesson then. After all, Margaret thought callously, she, more than anyone, knew _resoundingly_ the colossal chasm separating _comfort_ from _love_.

No, Margaret shook her head, she wasn't making that mistake again.

She sighed, feeling his balanced breathing on her neck. If only the rest of her life could be as simple as this moment. But then, _this_ wasn't simple either. Not really.

Margaret looked at the ceiling of the darkened tent, half-hearing the sound of steadily falling rain outside. Pierce shifted slightly, mumbling another incoherent phrase beside her ear. Margaret let herself smile, resting her temple against the crown of his head. His hair felt soft against her cheek.

He _is_ still here, she thought, almost pleading. Wasn't that something?

No, she decided with finality.

Though, Margaret admitted, it _was_ nice.

It isn't real, she reminded herself. It doesn't mean anything. Don't forget what happened the last time you let your guard down, she warned.

Margaret came to a decision.

She would be the one to leave tonight.

Margaret held her breath, trying to slowly slide out from under Hawkeye without waking him. She'd been lying on the side of the cot closest to the wall, and now she inched her way to the opposite edge. She almost made it, too.

His arm tightened across her body.

Margaret stopped, startled by the sudden movement. He was lying face down in the pillow with his head turned toward the opposite wall. She could hardly hear his muffled voice when he said without moving, "Margaret, we have a very strict after-hours policy here. All doors must remain securely closed until business hours resume."

Margaret was at a loss for words. She finally managed to stammer, "I thought you were—well, you looked like you were—I didn't want to—," she swallowed, then continued in a tone that was all-business, "Let me out, please, Pierce."

Hawkeye didn't move. His tired voice came from the pillow again, "At least you've regained the ability to speak," he turned his head to look at her before amending, "Well, partially, anyway."

Margaret was grimly aware that his arm hadn't loosened its hold on her.

He gazed at her through half-closed eyes. His hair stuck up at odd angles.

Margaret started to speak, "Pierce." She stopped, her voice faltering slightly, "Hawkeye." She halted once more, unsure of how to continue.

"Margaret." He said, imitating her tone. He looked at her sideways, his head still flat on the pillow.

She tried to free herself again, but his arm only tightened around her. A bar of light shaded his face, rendering its features unreadable. She let herself get angry. Angry was easy. She could do angry.

Margaret gripped his arm, demanding, "Pierce, let me go!"

"No." He turned his head toward the wall again, but left the arm in place.

Margaret narrowed her eyes at the back of his head. Now she was _actually_ getting angry. "What?" She exclaimed, frustrated. She thought her voice sounded mean. Good, she noted. Mean is also useful.

"I said_no_, Margaret." He paused, lifting his head and yawning before continuing, "As in, _no,_ I will not let go of you. You don't get to leave yet." Hawkeye sighed tiredly. Margaret felt his arm relax across her ribs. His voice was low when he spoke again resignedly, "Not until you tell me what the hell happened to you yesterday."

Margaret stared up at the ceiling, trying to sound matter of fact. "Nothing happened. I'm fine."

He abruptly turned his head again to gape at her in disbelief, commenting sarcastically, "Margaret. You'll forgive me if I'm not convinced."

She looked at him uncertainly, finally declaring with more vehemence than she felt, "You're really infuriating sometimes."

He propped his head on one elbow, glaring at her furiously. "_I'm_ infuriating?" His fingers angrily tightened on her belly. "I'm infuriating?" He repeated with increased incredulity.

He sighed. "Margaret, I've never _seen_ you that drunk before—and you know and I know that _that_ is saying something. I mean, I've seen you pretty far gone." He laughed shortly. "Well, until last night anyway. Compared to _that_, 'pretty far gone,' for you, is not even off of the porch." He stopped, staring intensely in her eyes. Hawkeye took a deep breath.

His voice softened. "You were hurting about something," he asserted. She started to interrupt, to deny, but he continued before she could speak. "And," he grinned roguishly, his initial furor diminished, "as it happens, I am very available right now for any and all shoulder-crying purposes."

That did it. Margaret seethed. If he was trying to be sympathetic he was failing miserably, she thought, incensed. She could not believe his ego.

"Why is it that you think you know me so well? She demanded, annoyed. "You don't." Margaret practically growled. She paused, glowering.

She continued as another obnoxious fact occurred to her, "You always just _assume_ you can get in my head. Figure me out." Her voice faltered a little.

Margaret took a deep breath before adding more icily than she intended, "_You can't_. Not if I don't want you to." She immediately regretted the words.

His eyes flashed a tiny glimmer of hurt. He lay back, slowly pulling his arm to his side.

She realized evenly she could leave now, run away, get out of this conversation. Margaret didn't move. She felt the anger drain from her slowly, leaving only a thin, tired remorse in its place.

She couldn't leave. He didn't deserve to be yelled at. Not this time.

Hawkeye turned toward her suddenly. When he spoke again his voice sounded exasperated, and Margaret also detected something…wounded there, too.

"Margaret do you realize that last night you _drunkenly seduced_ _me_?" He paused, wound up. His voice grew progressively louder. He spoke rapidly, almost ranting. "Do you remember that at all? Because I_definitely_ do."

Margaret winced. She knew this tendency, identified it as a response to intense frustration.

He continued speaking hurriedly, emphasizing random words, "And while the scenario was more than a _little_ familiar for me, I'm inestimably certain that I've never been at the _receiving_ end before." He stopped, finally catching his breath, his eyes nearly black in the dim light.

Margaret stared at him blankly. She didn't remember that. Though she certainly wasn't going to disagree with him about anything that happened last night. After all, she thought, as astounding as such a thing was to say, he_had_ been the sober one. For once.

And she wasn't about to start pondering the absurdity of that fact right now.

Hawkeye looked at her sideways for a moment, noting her obvious confusion. He studied her as calm seemed to return to his features. He looked like he was about to say more but stopped, he cocked his head.

Though she'd grown somewhat accustomed to his mercurial moods in the months they'd been assigned to the 4077th, Margaret could not have predicted what he did next.

He grinned. It started in his eyes and then pulled at the corners of his mouth and then slowly spread across his face. He looked pointedly at her.

He continued grinning widely, finally commenting, "Not that I'm _complaining_." Margaret stared back, baffled. He appeared to be laughing at her.

He extended his arm again, placing his fingertips lightly on her hip and pulling her gently to lie on her side, facing him. Margaret cautiously looked into his face.

Hawkeye spoke softly, his tone and face serious, though Margaret noted his eyes betrayed the faintly mischievous gleam from a moment ago.

"Now, despite my initial indignation, and I do still expect some form of apology for taking advantage of me, mind you. Nevertheless, I don't want you to feel badly about having your wicked way with me. After all, you were _very inebriated_."

She stared at him dazed, trying like hell to remember what had actually happened the last few hours.

He continued gravely, "No, you shouldn't feel too badly. Somehow, I managed to get through it."

Margaret gawked at him. She knew he'd been teetering on the edge of insanity pretty much since Day 1 at this place, and now she wondered if perhaps he'd taken a final step over the edge.

Hawkeye noted her confusion and smirked. "But then, I've never been one to grumble. Grin and bear it, I always say. Just keep marching and all that. " Margaret could only gape back at him.

He nodded at her meaningfully. She tried to glare at him, but finally smiled in spite of herself. He smiled coyly back, encouraged by her reaction, adding with mock indignation, "I'm actually feeling a little cheap right now. I mean, is that all I am to you, Margaret?"

Margaret sensed that though his tone was light—off the cuff, even—his real feelings were in fact, buried somewhere at the heart of what he was saying. Margaret knew, better than anyone, that everyone had his or her defense mechanism. His always seemed to be humor. Humor, which grew persistently stranger the more agitated he became, apparently.

Hawkeye studied her silently for a long moment. He finally rolled his eyes dramatically, "Margaret, for just a second of your life can you not be so damn tough?" She looked at him, surprised by this turn. Where had that come from?

Hawkeye touched her cheek lightly with his fingertips. "This thing that made you drink yourself into oblivion yesterday? It can't be that bad. Who can you tell if not the person you dislike more than anyone else?" He smiled sweetly at her.

Margaret nodded, surrendering. She sighed. "Alright."

She supposed he could be mildly charming when he wanted to. Besides, he was right, she reasoned. It couldn't be that bad.

Could it?

She paused, wondering where the hell to start. There was so much. And coincidentally, one of the major issues she had just drowned in the booze was _staring_ at her right now. _That_ was definitely not something she was discussing tonight, Margaret decided determinedly.

"So this is about a patient?" Hawkeye prompted casually. His eyes met hers and Margaret realized suddenly, he knew. How could he know?

She looked at him darkly. "What makes you say that?"

He raised his eyebrows. "BJ saw you crying."

Margaret scowled. "I was _not_ crying," she declared.

Hawkeye looked at her blankly. "Fine," he chimed facetiously. "BJ saw you not wiping a non-tear from your non-cheek."

"Pierce," She warned dangerously.

He made a face, quickly adding, "Sorry. I'll be good." She glanced at him incredulously. "Scout's honor," he promised. "No interruptions from the peanut gallery."

Margaret rolled her eyes.

"I'm sorry!" He said plaintively. "Come on, you were telling me about your patient."

"I was," Margaret agreed. She stopped, thinking. Hawkeye waited silently, idly running his fingertips down the length of her arm.

Margaret blinked at him, shaking her head. She finally spoke haltingly. "I guess, yes. It's about a patient." She stopped, lost in thought.

He blinked at her. "And…Margaret?" She focused her eyes on him, shaking her head and willing herself into lucidity.

"His name is Griffin," she continued with difficulty. "He's a…" She couldn't remember his rank. His rank? My God.

Margaret concentrated. "Lt. Colonel." She concluded. "He's a Lt. Colonel. He came in with shrapnel wounds yesterday." She paused briefly, remembering. "He and I…knew each other before the war," Margaret finished slowly.

Hawkeye flashed a knowing smile. "You _knew_ him? Like, in the biblical sense?"

Margaret ignored this comment, and quickly shook her head, correcting, "Well, we enlisted together." He nodded, looking at her expectantly.

She glanced down. "And," she admitted quietly, "I guess you might say we were…together."

He nodded understandingly. "Were you in love with him?" He asked after a moment.

The question surprised her. She looked into his eyes, critically trying to gauge if he was being serious. She started to snap at him again, but, his blue eyes stared back in earnest.

Margaret furrowed her brow, considering the question. "I think I was," she finally admitted.

She stopped, suddenly realizing how bad an idea this was. She suddenly felt trapped. Her heart thumped rapidly, seemingly in time to the whispered chant in the back of her mind. _Escape_. Margaret began desperately to think of a way to get out of this, leave, run away. The impulse increased in intensity.

His voice jolted her back to reality. "Margaret," Hawkeye ventured tentatively before she could say anything. He spoke her name again, adding, "I don't think I understand. This guy was your friend, right?" Margaret nodded idly, trying to figure out what he was getting at.

He continued haltingly, "So you see an old friend with whom you haven't spoken in years…and immediately make your way to the Scotch bottle?" The urge to leave was beginning to lessen. She could no longer hear the demanding thud of her heart beat.

Margaret finally nodded sheepishly. "You're right." She agreed. Then she admitted without really intending to, "It's just…when I saw Griff again, it made me realize how much my life…I guess it…it wasn't really about him." Margaret stopped, wondering if she should continue. If she could continue.

Did she want to disclose any of this to _him_? She didn't know if she was capable of this much trust anymore. _Especially_ where he was concerned.

"Margaret," he prompted softly, interrupting her thoughts. "What is it?"

And then she didn't care anymore what he thought. If he wanted to know so badly what was going on in her head, well, then fine. To hell with him. To hell with this.

She told him. Slowly at first, then gaining momentum, Margaret told him about seeing Griff and feeling regret because he reminded her of being happy—and it felt odd to remember something like happiness without actually feeling happy. She told him she hated seeing Griff again because he made her consider how much she'd changed—and more importantly—whether or not she'd actually changed for the better. She told him how frustrated she was with Donald, because he didn't care and she _did_. He never had. She wanted something from Donald that he could never give her and she didn't know _what_ it was. She told him about being afraid of life after this war because she didn't think she _could_ go back to sleeping on clean sheets and eating real food. And finally, she told him how tired she was of living her life, trying always in vain to make her father proud of her. She told him how her father had never loved her as much as she loved him—no matter what she did. No matter how she tried she could never live up to those expectations. And it was exhausting to be always racing to remain in his shadow.

She told Hawkeye all this. Margaret started talking and didn't stop until everything poured out. When she finally took a breath it felt like the first breath she'd taken in hours.

She became aware of a familiar pain in the back of her throat.

Familiar, because Margaret knew this pain had gradually, subtly, replaced crying.

And then she told him how she wanted to cry. Tonight, the night before that, for a very long time she'd wanted to cry. People were dying and bleeding around her. Her life was passing by without actually passing by because nothing ever changed. She wanted to cry and she couldn't.

Then she was silent. There was nothing else to say. The pain in her throat grew until she gasped. She choked on a dry sob, desperately willing a single tear to fall onto her cheek. Sobs continued to wrack her body. Like pulling a pin from a grenade—the words came from somewhere, but Margaret couldn't remember saying them or hearing them. But the pin had been thrown away and the explosion rained down around her.

Hawkeye knit his eyebrows together. He quickly pulled her into his arms, smoothing her hair. Pressing her firmly to his chest, he kissed the side of her head, murmuring incoherent words of comfort into her ear as much needed tears finally burst from her eyes. It was finished.

She closed her eyes, feeling a tidal wave of emotions pass over her, through her. She felt many things. Mostly relieved.

Margaret didn't move for a long time. She pressed her eyes into his shoulder, concentrating on breathing, willing calmness to return and the involuntary shaking to stop. Her entire body hurt. Someone said, "Breathe, Margaret," and for a moment she thought she'd given herself an order out loud.

Then she knew he'd said it.

Hell of a day, she thought, regaining a semblance of clarity.

With every shuddering breath, Margaret felt better, lighter. She rested her head on his shoulder, unclenching her eyelids and fists intermittently.

As if in answer, Hawkeye gently let her lie back. He propped his head on his elbow again, staring at her intensely. One arm remained securely pressed across her, and it seemed to Margaret he intended to keep her there through sheer will. This time, though, Margaret felt buoyed by it rather than trapped.

Right now, she had a strange feeling it really could be the only thing keeping her from drifting away. She knew he wouldn't let her go.

After a moment, Hawkeye touched her cheek. "Margaret, can I ask you something else?" He asked tentatively. She opened her eyes, nodding slowly. She inhaled sharply.

His words made her apprehensive. Margaret realized wearily it was because conversations beginning with a phrase like that generally ended badly. She felt the lump in her throat recede marginally, and waited expectantly

His blue eyes studied her seriously. "Before, when you tried to leave." He swallowed, looking at her intently. "Why?" Margaret wondered if she was crazy for detecting something possessive in his tone.

Of course. She should've known he hadn't really been kind to her because he cared. It was only about him persistently having the upper hand, the advantage. And for a moment, Margaret began to get angry again.

But then, she noted with surprise a glimmer of hurt in his voice. Looking more closely at his features, she observed how dark his eyes seemed in the dim light. His hair had fallen messily across one side of his face, casting a shadow partially over his forehead.

Margaret gently pushed his hair onto his forehead with one hand. He seemed more vulnerable somehow. It was the expression on his face, she realized. It was sincere. She'd hurt him.

She marveled, realizing this was the first time she'd ever seen him express unhappiness without at least a hint of sarcasm. Margaret suddenly felt lighter, she smiled at him.

She wasn't happy that she'd injured him, but at least she knew all this wasn't all about him maintaining the upper hand.

Margaret reached up with both hands, drawing his face to hers. She kissed him slowly, sweetly. The gravity of her former melancholy no longer weighted her down, and for the first time in months her face didn't feel taut, stretched.

When she pulled back, Margaret clasped his face gently, holding it close to hers. "Well, you know I was really very drunk, Pierce," she finally admitted, coyly. "To tell you the truth, I don't even remember that." Margaret grinned. In this moment, she was more content than she'd been in months.

He gawked at her, groaning, "Right. Like you don't remember your charming—extremely drunken—number earlier either, is that it? I see how this works." Hawkeye moved off of the elbow he'd been leaning on, sliding his arms underneath her back and resting his weight on her. His former seriousness had vanished. He seemed relieved.

Hawkeye smiled, narrowing his eyes and leaning his face toward hers. "You do know you're kind of crazy, don't you?" He asked her seriously before unhurriedly kissing her mouth. "And frustrating," he added next to her ear, his breath tickling her neck.

"Takes one to know one," she mumbled, closing her eyes and savoring the sensation.

He drew back, and Margaret studied his face. From this distance, his eyes looked bluer than usual. Something occurred to her.

"Hawkeye?" Margaret asked hesitantly. He nodded, waiting for her to continue.

She paused, grimacing. "Did I really 'drunkenly seduce' you?" She asked, mildly embarrassed.

Hawkeye grinned. "It was fantastic," he said appreciatively. "But, do you know what the_best_ part was?"

She looked blankly back at him.

"You never said a word."

Margaret's eyes widened, but before she could utter a single inflammatory syllable, he kissed her, laughing into her mouth.

Epilogue:

The Next Day

Margaret smiled at a patient as she checked the bandage on a leg wound. "You're healing very well, soldier. You should be back on your feet in no time." She patted his shoulder before continuing on to the next bed.

Margaret unhooked the chart and flinched, realizing whose it was.

Griffin.

She took a calming breath before making her way to his bedside. He was sleeping again. She noticed with regret the flecks of gray in his hair, the lines around his eyes. Margaret began to inspect his bandaging, trying not to wake him.

His hand suddenly grabbed hers. "I'd know those hands anywhere," he croaked without opening his eyes.

Margaret, quickly recovering from her initial surprise, sat down slowly on the adjoining bed. She linked her fingers through his. "Hi, Griffin," she said quietly.

He opened his eyes. "_Hi_, _Griffin_?" He sounded as if he were going to say something else, but stopped, smiling at her. "You look good Margaret," he noted seriously. "Really good."

She smiled back at him, "You, too." She frowned, realizing maybe that wasn't the best thing to say right now, considering the circumstances.

He started to laugh at her discomfort, but coughed instead. Margaret handed him a glass of water from his bedside. When he'd finished drinking he grinned at her. That smile. It used to make her heart skip a beat. Now she just felt a little old.

He sputtered a thank you and coughed for a moment longer before going on, "So. Tell me, Margaret Houlihan, how have the sands of time treated you?"

She thought a moment. "I'm doing alright," she answered honestly.

"Just alright?" He asked quickly, a kind expression on his face.

"I guess I'm…" Margaret trailed off, searching for words. She looked at him. "I guess I'm just ready for this war to end," she finished sincerely.

He nodded, muttering, "You're telling me."

They stared at each other a moment, understanding passing between them. They both knew what it was to think so much of a war and an army, only to be disappointed by the grim reality.

Margaret suddenly wondered angrily why reality always had to be so damn grim.

Griff broke the silence first. "Well, Margaret, are you married?" He asked lightly, a friendly gleam in his eye.

Margaret looked at the floor. She glanced back at him, smiling thinly. "Yes, I am. To a Lieutenant Colonel." Margaret tried to remember how to sound enthusiastic. "Donald Penobscott," she added as an afterthought. She dutifully showed him the ring.

Griff beamed. "Well, that's great, Margaret. Congratulations." She nodded, trying to maintain the smile.

He lowered his voice conspiratorially, "So, how do you like married life?" Griff winked at her. "Is he everything you've ever dreamed of? Or maybe I should say, is _he_ anything like _me_?"

Margaret would've laughed if it hadn't been so damn tragic.

Griffin noted her uneasiness. "_Not_ everything you've ever dreamed of," he guessed gently.

Margaret smiled at him, squeezing his hand. "It's going to be fine, I think." She nodded, genuinely believing her own words. "I've found something here—at this outfit I mean—that makes me think…well, it makes me think maybe I don't really need Donald." She spoke almost to herself. "That maybe I never needed him."

She shook her head, smiling fondly at Griffin. "What I mean to say is, I know _why_ I married him. Then. But, now…things have changed, I guess. I've changed."

He smiled knowingly back.

"Seeing somebody on the side, are you?" He drawled conspiratorially, grinning. Margaret knew him enough to realize this comment wasn't really ill intended, but meant to get her ire up. Griff was trying to get a rise out of her.

Margaret wondered if maybe her sobriety was scaring him a little. That's fitting, she thought matter-of-factly. Now she was scaring other people, too.

Margaret paused, considering what he'd said carefully. "No." she decided, "Not really." He looked at her expectantly.

She attempted to explain, and found it difficult, saying, "I've made some very close friends here, you know. You wouldn't think so, but the staff here is very closely knit. A few have really become…well, some have even… I don't think I've been closer to anyone than…" She stopped herself, smiling at him wistfully before affirming slowly, "Well, _you_ know I've never had many friends."

He started to object, but she stopped him with a wave of her hand. "Not counting you, of course Griff. Hell, _you're_ probably the closest thing I've got to a best friend."

Griff grinned, approvingly, adding, "Not too bad looking, either, if I do say so myself."

She laughed, "Well, you have _that_ going for you." Margaret smiled fondly at him, "It's great to see you, Griff. Really. Even under the circumstances."

She looked down for a moment, her face becoming serious. "You know when I first caught sight of you yesterday, I had the strangest reaction."

He grinned mischievously, hopefully inquiring, "It wasn't by any chance, uncontrollable desire, was it?"

"Well, in addition to _that,_ of course, Griff." She joked. Margaret paused, unsure of how to continue.

He noted her sudden sobriety, "You going to be okay, Margaret? You seem a little down."

She studied him seriously for a moment. Now that was the thousand-dollar question, wasn't it? Margaret thought about it.

She grasped his hand tightly, smiling sincerely at him. "Yes. I think I will be."

And she meant it. If seeing him had taught her anything, it was that she really was. She wasn't dead for God's sake.

And, for the first time in along time, she believed she might yet see the end of this war.

Margaret turned her attention back to Griff. "Now enough about me! Tell me all about what _you've_ been up to these past few years. How are things in the regular army?"


End file.
